


Regrets

by ladydeathfaerie



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Established Relationship, Language, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/pseuds/ladydeathfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint reflects on the major events and regrets in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> a fic written for the Big Damn Table i got from the avengers_tables community on Livejournal. the prompt for this fic is _regrets_. like the other fics written for the table, this is all part of a 'verse that exists in my head and doesn't have a name. i'll get around to that some day. 
> 
> as for the events of this fic, i'll leave you to wonder if they actually happened or not.

The wind was bitter cold, biting through layers of material as it swept over him. He hugged the coat tighter to him with one hand and stared down at the snow covered ground before him. Small white missiles flew into his eyes and tried to obscure his vision, tried to blot out the evidence of his failure. He let the frozen snow sting his eyes and flesh. Let his hand tighten on the grip of the cane he held. 

Another reminder of his failure.

This was the first time he'd been able to visit. For the first two months, he'd been laid up in bed, floating between drug addled consciousness and drug induced sleep. The months following that had been spent doing hours of physical therapy, learning how to walk again after a wall of concrete had fallen on him and nearly pulverized every bone in his left leg. He'd never walk without a limp again. Hell, he'd never walk without aid of the cane again. By some perverse twist of fate, his arms and hands were still good. He still had perfect aim. He could still nail a target from half a mile away. Except he couldn't lay in wait the way he used to. There was no way he could bunk down in some make shift nest and fall into the stillness for hours and days at a time. His leg didn't like it. It protested loudly if he tried. 

No more sniping for him. No more government jobs for him. No more team for him. 

It had happened in the summer, when the heat was thick and oppressive. Sweat had beaded up on his skin, made his gear uncomfortable and itchy. It was supposed to have been a simple job. No one was supposed to have gotten hurt. They were supposed to have been in and out. He'd been told he was only going along to prevent the worst case scenario. 

The worst case scenario had snuck up on him and happened when he wasn't ready for it. One minute, he'd been watching the rest of the team through the scope on his sniper rifle. The next, the entire building had exploded. Literally. The concrete wall had fallen on him before he'd had a chance to break cover. The next thing he'd known, he was in a hospital room being pumped full of drugs and pretty much unable to move most of his body.

It hadn't been until after the doctors had been sure that he would make a full, if somewhat stunted, recovery that they'd allowed him to be told the news. He hadn't been able to believe it. It was something that shouldn't have happened. Maybe it wouldn't have if he'd caught sight of something out of the ordinary. He'd been told that it wasn't his fault, that the experts had done an analysis of the building and had found that the bomb had been laid before they'd arrived. Had been well hidden. Had been well placed. 

His fingers gripped the head of the cane tighter, ignoring the icy cold that poured through his bones. He'd be stiff and sore later. He knew it. But this was his penance for failing them. This was his penance for surviving when no one else had. Standing in shin deep snow, letting the chill creep down his leg and into each one of the pins and plates and rods the doctors had used to put his leg back together again. It was no less than he deserved for not being with them. 

Blue eyes swept along the length of marble tombstones. The first belonged to Natasha. It was a monolith of black marble that had been topped with a milky white angel, its wings stretched wide while its hands were clasped together before it. The plaque that had been mounted at the base listed her name, her date of birth and death. A single black widow spider rested on a filmy cobweb carved into the center of the plaque. Nothing more or less. As if that was all there had been to the woman. 

Next came Tony. Why they hadn't buried him next to his parents was a mystery. His marker was as black as Tasha's, thin veins of gold and grey running through the marble. Like Tasha's, they'd put his name on it, the dates of his birth and death. An etching of the arc reactor that had resided in his chest. 

Steve was side by side with Tony. The white granite marker was simple and plain, much the way the man had been. Name and dates were all that was provided. Whoever had carved the headstone had expertly added in the American flag. Despite its lack of color, it was so realistic that it appeared to be flapping in the breeze. There was also a carving of his shield, the star big and bold in the center of it. 

Last was Bruce. The marble was black with an iridescent sheen to it. The fading light painted hints of green and purple on the surface. There was nothing on his beyond his name and the dates of birth and death. Nothing to signify who he was. What he was. 

He was the last of the Avengers. There were no others left. But for a twist of fate and he might have died with them. He should have. It would have been kinder for him. What was he without a bow or a sniper rifle in his hands, hidden in some nest on a roof or a tree? He'd been a fucking hero. And now he was reduced to... nothing.

Nothing because there _were_ no Avengers. With the explosion and their deaths, the Initiative had been put on ice. Labeled obsolete by a bunch of government assholes who had nothing better to do than sit around all day with their thumbs up their asses. The moment the team had been taken apart, they'd thanked Thor for his service and sent him on his way. Fine way to treat a god who had saved their asses. They should have just said 'Fuck you!' and been done with it. As far as he knew, Thor had returned to Asgard. 

The worst part of it was the fact that he didn't know where Fury was. Rumor said that the feds had caught the man and locked him up for treasonous acts. What treasonous acts could Fury have committed? Unless he'd threatened to have the balls of those responsible for ending the Avengers for good. The whole thing smelled like a conspiracy to him, like some kind of great big stinking mess of a government cover up. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. He didn't need the bastards anyway.

The pain in his leg had intensified, leaving him feel like taking a step would see him spilled face first in the snow. He wouldn't care if it happened. He'd lay there and freeze to death. These people had been his family. His friends. They'd been heroes. They _were_ fucking heroes and they'd deserved more than this. A small, private plot in the middle of bum fuck Egypt where no one would be able to pay their respects to people who had literally given their lives for the average guy. 

"Come back to the car, Clint. There's no point in standing here, brooding over things you can't change," the quiet voice pulled him back from dark and dangerous thoughts. He was still a fucking good sniper. He still had some connections. He knew the names of those who had opposed the Avengers from the beginning. All he needed were addresses. 

He glanced to his right to find that Phil was just suddenly there. Clint hadn't heard him approach. Retired though he may be, he still had all the mad skills he'd possessed as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. The other man had put his hand on Clint's arm, something he hadn't felt. It was a testament to just how out of his head he'd been. "They deserved better, Phil. More than this." 

Phil let his gaze take in Clint's face, merely assessing what he saw. "I know that look, Hawkeye." God, that hurt. No one had called him Hawkeye since the accident. He wasn't even sure he deserved the title anymore. "Come back to the car. Your leg has to be bothering you." 

"I'm fine," Clint lied. He wanted to stay. Stupid as it sounded, he wanted a chance to say goodbye to everyone. He hadn't had that. Of everything about that day, not being able to see them all one last time, to say goodbye to them and let them know how he really felt about them, was what he regretted the most. If he had a chance to do it all again...

"You aren't fine." There was hint of the old Coulson in his voice. The hand on his arm somehow managed to maneuver him around until they were pointed toward Phil's car. "You're freezing and your leg hurts. Let's go back to the car. I'll turn on the heater and you can warm up. I've got a few files I want you to look at." 

That caught Clint's attention. He shot Phil a hopeful look. "Files? What kind of files?" 

"Let's just call it a mission." The smile on Coulson's face told him everything he needed to know.


End file.
